Wishing I was back in Madrid on 14 April

Today I have mostly been shivering in England, wishing I was back in Spain. Last week I spent three wonderful days in the sunshine in Madrid, talking to journalists and Spanish teenagers in the build up to My Sister Lives on the Mantelpiece coming out over there. It was my first meeting with my Spanish publishers, Siruela, and I loved it.

The trip started rather stressfully. As I am living at home at the moment, I have regressed to being fifteen years old so I didn't put up too much of a fight when my dad banned me from driving to Liverpool for my flight. 'You'll die,' he shrugged, 'or else kill some other innocent driver. You're getting the bus.' A few weeks ago, the twenty-eight year old Annabel would have laughed this off and driven regardless.  The new Annabel, however – the one who gets her laundry done and her dinner cooked and has to text her parents when she'll be home late – didn't protest.

So get the bus I did. Or at least tried to. My dad dropped me off at the bus station an hour early and, to kill time, I bought a magazine. Grazia. This is not something I ordinarily do. Celebrity gossip doesn't interest me; the royal wedding even less. I mean, who cares right? So a balding prince is marrying a rich girl with a nice smile while the lower classes dig deep in their shallow pockets to buy sausage rolls from Tescos for street parties on pot-holed roads that the council can't afford to mend because the country has no money. Anyway. There I was, sitting in the bus station, flicking absent-mindedly through Grazia, when I came across an article that interested me. I can't for the life in me remember what it was, but I have to admit that I was unusually hooked. Perhaps Katie Price's chest had exploded. Or one of those freaky Olsen twins had overcome anorexia to eat the other one. Or heavily-pregnant Natalie Portman had given birth to a black cygnet. Whatever it was, I was so engrossed in my magazine that I didn't see the bus arrive at the station and only realised it had been there at all when I saw the rear lights disappear around a corner.

Seventy quid and one taxi ride later, I finally arrived at the airport, cursing my overprotective father, especially as the cab driver seemed hell bent on killing me as he hammered down the fast lane at one hundred miles per hour. I have a fear of flying, so the rest of the journey was no better, as I gripped the arm-rests on the plane and gritted my teeth at the slightest sign of turbulence.

I am pleased to report that the rest of the trip improved considerably. Madrid was fabulous, my pitiful Spanish aside. I can only remember the bits I picked up when I was travelling through South America with my husband, and there was no real need to ask for a guinea pig and side salad during my stay. I had interviews with magazines and newspapers and radio stations, a photo shoot or two, an event and book signing at the British Council and a trip to a school where 100 Spanish teenagers humoured me during the last period of the day as I blabbed on about my book. They were a fantastic audience and I loved their questions, which included, 'How many friends do you have on Facebook?' I am embarrassed to say I exaggerated the figure slightly. Thirty mates sounded reasonable.

When I returned to England, I popped to the London Book Fair, which offered an interesting insight into the publishing world. At least it would have done, had I understood what on earth was going on. Important people huddled around mysterious papers spread out on tables. Distinguished guests gave highbrow talks to eager listeners on incomprehensible topics. I hobbled round the stalls in uncomfortable shoes sipping a carton of Ribena, trying not to look lost.  Thankfully, my agent took me under her wing and we had a lovely time at the Andrew Nurnberg party, where I was introduced to my fabulous French and German publishers. It really is humbling to meet people who are so enthusiastic about Mantelpiece. I feel very lucky indeed.

After a great dinner catching up with my agent, I stayed the night at a friend's house and then managed to attend Kazuo Ishiguro's talk the following day at the book fair. He spoke about the importance of writers and artists and film makers working together to ensure that difficult projects – those that challenge rather than patronise society – get made, despite the fact they will never be commercially lucrative. Claiming that we were drowning in a wave of blockbuster culture, he stressed the importance of stories that offer something less obvious but far more important to the human psyche. According to Ishiguro, there's a price to pay for our obsession with celebrity culture.

He's right, of course. Seventy quid in a taxi to be precise. I'm never buying Grazia again.